


A Short Collection

by Philosophizes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven very short one-shots that don't stand well on their own, all from prompts given by budgeridoo. </p><p>1. The Atrocity of Thompson and Morgan- Romano discovers the TomTato<br/>2. The United Nations Sleepover- America hosts a sleepover<br/>3. The Erlking- Little Germany and big brother Prussia share some playtime<br/>4. All The Time- Feliciano is not pleased with how people treat Ludwig<br/>5. The Face of Venice- Germany meets Venice for the first time<br/>6. Moose King- Germany and Italy prank Sweden<br/>7. Lady Knights- Europe's best mercenaries are the Knights Errant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Atrocity of Thompson and Morgan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [budgeridoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/budgeridoo/gifts).



Lovino didn’t know why he’d thought this was a good idea, honestly.

Okay, yes he did- he and Alfred were here to despair about the declines of their respective agricultural industries by burying themselves in the latest in farming technology and techniques. But all it was doing was making him deeply unhappy and cursing his government under his breath for being _shit_ at funding things.

_America_ got subsidies and his soil was actually arable! His people needed some of that!

Maybe if he looked at the new types of plants he could take some notes and wow enough people with science to convince them to actually put aside some money.

He’d expected to find higher-yield and hardier crops- what he _found_ was a monstrosity.

* * *

Alfred was doing his best not to cling to a John Deere combine and cry when he heard an enraged scream of Italian. He tore himself away from the farm equipment and told himself to put some speed on it- this was his country after all.

He found Lovino at the Thompson and Morgan display area, glaring at a plant as he quivered in rage.

“Uh, Lovino-”

He found himself grabbed by the collar suddenly and his face hauled down to Lovino’s.

_“Are you responsible for this,”_ he hissed, pointing at the plant.

“Uhhh… no? I thought you liked tomatoes?”

_“It’s a tomato plant that grows potatoes!”_

“Woah,” Alfred said. “That’s freakin’ awesome, actually.”

Lovino shook him.

“Ow! Hey, okay, fine, it’s a disgrace to the botanical world and a travesty of cuisine!”

_“I should have expected this from an American!”_

“Y’know that Thompson and Morgan is a _British_ company, right? They’re just showing stuff off here, there’s companies from other parts of Europe too-”

_“Someone is going to pay for this.”_

* * *

England was a gardener, not a farmer. He didn’t hold much with kitchen gardens unless you were an avid home cooker with high standards or it was wartime. He preferred well-kept flower beds and hedges with the occasional tasteful geometric topiary and neo-classical statuettes. Perhaps a water feature, if it wasn’t too much of an expense.

He took good care of his yard, and felt justly wrathful when he awoke one morning to find that someone had planted _vegetables_ in his petunias. He stormed out into his yard in his house robe and slippers, cursing.

An invoice from Thompson and Morgan was taped to his front door, billing him for £450 worth of Tom-Tato plants.


	2. The United Nations Sleepover

Honestly the only reason they could do this was because Alfred really, really liked New York City.

He liked it so much that he’d paid what had probably been a ridiculous amount for a full-floor penthouse on Riverside Drive overlooking the Hudson River Greenway and the river itself. Central Park was three blocks in the opposite direction and Alfred seemed to like it quite a bit; plus it gave him space to get out of the White House. Living and working in the same building all day all week got very old very fast.

It was half an hour by subway from his apartment to the United Nations; and about an hour walking. It was easy to get to and decently pleasant to walk. You could detour through Central Park and take a little longer if you felt like it.

The best part about it though was that the floor plan was ridiculously open and Alfred had a bit of a thing for minimalism; so there was barely any furniture and everything was really streamlined; from the wire rack shelves to the giant flatscreen to the kitchen appliances.

But he also really really liked hosting sleepovers; so there was always a colorful mess of pillows and blankets and well-used secondhand couches and armchairs cycling through at any given moment.

Tonight was a sleepover.

* * *

Germany was in charge of the ‘coat check’, which was really just everybody leaving their shoes and ties and suit jackets and jewelry and other assorted accessories in Alfred’s bedroom, because if he wasn’t in charge then he grumbled about the mess and it was actually pretty hard to figure out who’s stuff was what in the morning without him organizing it.

Alfred made the popcorn. A _lot_ of popcorn, in a lot of different flavors and levels of salt and butter; and put the supplies for ice cream sundaes out as well. His kitchen would be a _mess_ in the morning but it gave him something to do that wasn’t work and anyway, this was _really fun._

Whoever had elected to come that day hauled out all the blankets and pillows and chairs and couches they could find into the living room area, which had a _great_ big depressed area in the floor so you could set up couches and chairs around the top and then have people sit on the sides of the depression in the built-in cushioned seating and then drop a bunch of pillows down inside so more people could lounge around on the floor and it was _awesome_ and he could fit like thirty or forty people in there.

Canada and Liechtenstein and Thailand helped carry the first round of popcorn out and Greece and Norway moved one of the machines out of the kitchen and took up an entire table with toppings and salt and melted butter stuff; and Belgium brought out the chocolate she donated for these things. Turkey and Cameroon wrangled the few Nations who weren’t in the living area already back with everyone else, and then the fun began.

It was time to pick the movie.

Russia wanted to watch _Star Wars_ \- _all_ of them. Andorra wanted to marathon _The Lord of the Rings_ and Ukraine was holding out for _The Phantom of the Opera_ and Israel wanted to see _Ben Hur_ and Hungary was loudly defending _The Terminator_ and England was all for _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ and Switzerland wanted _The Princess Bride_ and Veneziano was getting excited over _A Fistful of Dollars_ while Romano countered with _The Court Jester_.

China had picked up _Citizen Kane_ and France was extolling the virtues of _Nosferatu_ and Japan wanted _101 Dalmatians_ and India _The Iron Giant_ and Paraguay was interested in _Kiki’s Delivery Service_ and Chile had _The Godfather_ out _again_ and Uganda was waving America’s copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ around and Denmark wanted _Sleepless in Seattle_ and Spain pulled out _Die Hard_ and Kyrgyzstan hadn’t seen _Henry V_ yet and the United Arab Emirates liked _Brokeback Mountain_.

Somehow it came down to _The Children of the Corn_ (Iran; because it reminded her of Mesopotamian fertility cults), _The Da Vinci Code_ (the Vatican; because he liked to laugh at it), and _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves_ (Papua New Guinea; who knew?).

Everybody agreed they weren’t really in a horror movie mood and really, really wanted to see Morgan Freeman because Morgan Freeman was pretty awesome; so everything worked out in the end.

* * *

Finland was the one to start the kernel-flicking contest, and it meant people would be sitting on them the rest of the night but oh well, it was fun. New Zealand won when they managed to ricochet a kernel off Australia’s foot, Sri Lanka’s drink, Mauritania’s book, the wall, the ceiling, a window, the popcorn machine, and finally into the trashcan, in quick succession.

Nobody could top that but it didn’t keep them from trying.

* * *

Bulgaria was the one who started the pillow fight because _why the hell not?_ There were pillows everywhere and nothing to get broken because all of Alfred’s clutter was in DC. People were pretty enthusiastic about this idea, because for some reason Nations could get into every single other type of challenge and it would turn very serious, but pillow fights?

Pillow fights were just for fun.

The larger Nations got used as body shields by the smaller ones and there was no distinction between friend and foe because there _were_ no foes here, just friends smacking friends with bags of feathers in a display of semi-violent affection.

The fight lasted until everyone wore themselves out, which took a while, and then the dropped weapons were used to make pillow forts and nests and everybody collapsed together in a giant pile of humanity and just _slept._

Tomorrow, they could sort things out.


	3. The Erlking

The North German Confederation crept closer to his first war casualty. The body was still and pale on the ground and the Confederation wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do now but he’d _won-_

" _Make a speech,”_ Prussia hissed.

_"Dead men don’t talk!”_ the Confederation whispered back, poking his older brother with his foot.

Gilbert popped one eye open and stared up at him from the dirt.

“Who says I’m dead?”

Ludwig pointed his wooden sword imperiously at him.

“ _I_ do I got you and made gurgling noises and fell over! You were- _theatrical_ about it!”

His older brother smirked at him.

“Yeah, well, kid- you can’t kill _The Erlking!_ ”

Ludwig shrieked as Gilbert lunged for him as he stood; and took off running.

" _Gilbert Gilbert Gilbert Gilbert Gilbert!”_

_“Oh, come, thou dear infant! Oh come thou with me!”_ Gilbert roared as he chased after Ludwig, who had cleared the practice field and was hauling the manor door open. _“For many a game I will play there with thee-”_

Ludwig ducked between the butler who’d opened the door to see what the commotion was and the doorframe, dashing down the long hall. He stumbled as the rug covering the hardwood slipped across the floor as he stepped on it. The boy rolled back to his feet and ran up the stairs, still hearing Gilbert yelling lines of Goethe’s _Der Erlkönig_ behind him.

He ran into one of the guest bedrooms and hid under the bed, waiting.

Silence- not even footsteps on the stairs.

Ludwig waited.

_"I LOVE THEE-”_

Ludwig screamed, half-surprise, half instinctual fear, as Gilbert, using the bedsheets as a cloak, threw himself under the bed and grabbed Ludwig, his momentum skidding them out the other side. They tumbled a few feet, tangled in the sheets and each other. When they finally came to rest, Ludwig was giggling uncontrollably.

Gilbert squeezed him, cocooning them both entirely in the blankets. In the warm darkness, he murmured: _“I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!”_ , finishing the line of the poem, and kissed his little brother on the head. “ _Meine Mausi_.”

Ludwig did his best to hug his brother back.

“Love you too,” he muttered into Gilbert’s shirt.               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meine Mausi- My little mouse
> 
> Der Erlkönig is a poem by Goethe, where the King of the Elves steals a boy away from his father while they travel at night.


	4. All The Time

“Don’t give me that look,” Ludwig said severely over the top of his newspaper. “I _mean_ it, Feliciano.”

Feliciano just made a little rumbling noise and shoved his head under the paper to look up at him beseechingly.

_“Feliciano!”_ Ludwig exclaimed indignantly. “I was _reading!_ ”

Feliciano shoved his nose into Ludwig’s stomach and shoved himself closer, forcing Ludwig to let go of the newspaper so it wouldn’t tear.

“Feli-”

The rest of the name was smothered as Feliciano wrapped his forelegs around Ludwig and pulled him off the couch onto the floor and flopped down next to him, spreading his weight between the floor and Ludwig’s body. Feliciano nuzzled against his face and chuffed at him, batting at his opposite shoulder with a large paw.

“I need to breathe, Feli,” Ludwig muttered, trying to shove Feliciano off him. It never worked, but he stilled tried every time anyway.

_“Fine,”_ he grumbled, conceding, and reached around Feliciano’s broad shoulders to scratch around the base of his wings.

Feliciano stretched massively, skin rippling in places at the sensation. The thick muscles in his wings flexed visibly.

“Be careful of the carpet,” Ludwig reminded him, eyeing the way his claws extended from his paws, close to the tight weave of the floor covering.

Feliciano grunted at him and maneuvered all his legs around him in a hug.

“Hey-!”

He rolled over, cradling Ludwig against his chest, and brought his wings up around him as well.

Ludwig sighed, realizing what this was really about. He twisted his hands in Feliciano’s mane and let his head drop into the thick fur.

“You don’t have to apologize for your family,” he told him. “Mine do it too.”

Feliciano knocked his chin against the top of Ludwig’s head and tightened his grip, rocking him back and forth slightly. Ludwig could feel Feliciano’s tail lash against his calves in agitation.

“They’ve been doing it my whole life, Feli. I’m used to it.”

Feliciano growled, and licked his face.

“Don’t _do_ that, it _hurts,_ ” Ludwig told him, and pushed his face away.

Feliciano rumbled an apology.

“And it’s not as bad as it could be,” Ludwig continued. “No one has been so offended yet that they attack me shifted.”

There was suddenly a lot less mass under and around him.

_“They won’t ever,”_ Feliciano snarled. _“I’d get them.”_

“Feli, you need to let your mind catch up with the shift-”

_“No,”_ Feliciano was tense, fingers digging into Ludwig’s back. “I _meant_ it, Ludwig. I’d shift and _get them_ and- and if I wasn’t around I’d hunt them down and get them _then-”_

“Feli-”

“They’re _wrong,_ all of them, you _haven’t_ got half a soul you’ve got a whole one it’s just entirely human you don’t _need_ any other forms to show how you are-”

“Feli-”

“-and no it’s _not_ a genetic defect Ludwig it’s not hurting you you’re perfectly healthy it’s just how you _are_ and the insurance is _stupid_ for saying otherwise and the _hospital_ and the _worker’s benefits_ and _everybody!_ ”

“Feli,” Ludwig said, kissing him gently. “I know.”

“Our children are going to be _amazing,_ ” he insisted.

“I know.”

“Because if they shift then they have _two_ lines of Mythics and they’ll be like griffins or cockatrices or something and if they _don’t_ shift then they’re completely themselves, all the time, and everyone can see how beautiful and wonderful they are no matter _what._ ”

“And they will never forget it,” Ludwig replied fondly, smile creeping up on him. “Because you’ll tell them so, every single day.”

“Every day and every night and when sit down for dinner and breakfast and when they go to bed and when they wake up and when they go to school and when they come back and and-”

“All the time.”

“All the time,” Feliciano agreed.


	5. The Face of Venice

He had seen Paris and Vienna and Prague and Barcelona and Rome and Florence and London but _this, this city-_

This city deserved poetry.

It was fall and no longer hot and the canals rippled slightly in the breezes directed by the houses, breaking their reflections and shimmering sunlight onto the glass windows and dappling the painted stucco over bricks that flaked and sheared off in some places, exposing the red brick underneath, and the water lapped softly against the pilings under the piers. Shadows were thrown under the bridges and the gentle glide of boats slipped in and out between the momentary twilight and the late afternoon sun, the rattle of feet overhead momentarily overwhelming any conversation to be had on the water.

Laundry hung out to dry fluttered and the twisting change of light was confused for birds on the wing, seagulls and pigeons and sparrows, hunting for bits of food and the refuse of any meals left for trash. The sharp salt smell covered everything and the clocks striking the hour and halves and bells keeping quarters in between sounded clearer and cleaner here than anywhere, deep and strong and bright edged like the glint of money in the markets and the fabrics colors on display in the more expensive shops and the leather dust and paper taste of air in the bookshops and the _pound-thunk_ and ink in the printers’.

The church gardens were green filled with herbs that complimented the city’s earliest cooking, stray wafts of it tantalizing, alternating with the ground-in gunpowder and tar pitch and sawdust-hemp of the Arsenal, rebuilding now after Napoleon, industry determined to continue and grow and service. The _arsenalotti_ were coming home now, as the sun set, and the streets and canals were crowding and the water was on fire and the people were speaking, calling, and it flowed and turned as well as the currents in the lagoon, spread out to see from St. Mark’s Plaza, the further islands breaking the horizon and the Horses of St. Mark looking fit to parade across the stones, high-stepping and dragging the façade behind them in wings of marble white and lapis blue and wine red and starred with bright, bright gold, steps in time with the toll of the clocktower hour and their feet on the interior stairs of the Doge’s Palace-

“-the latticework on the architecture is so delicate, I can just see a jeweler sitting down and filigreeing around Murano glass to get the same effect for the ceilings, and a dressmaker sewing lace on the outside to get that look on the colonnade, and with the windows-”

He realized the other set of footfalls had stopped and he halted as well, turning on the steps to face his host.

“-the ones without glass are almost the best, because you can get a lot of interesting patterns in the glass itself but when it’s not there-”

His host was flushed, smile shaky and trying not to falter in the face of his description.

"You- you give really, _really_ good compliments,” Venice said, trying to hold down the warm fluttery feeling. “They- They’re really attentive and passionate.”

“-you can see the turquoise of the canals, it matches the sky earlier really we-uh, you’re welcome, I pay attention to beautiful thingoh. _Oh._ Um. Heh.”

For the first time that day, in the face of Venice, Germany was lost for words.


	6. Moose King

“C’mon c’mon Ludwig hurry up I need more of the sticky blue stuff.”

Ludwig put the latest clump of poster tacky into Felicano’s beckoning hand and ripped open another few packages. Feliciano rolled the clump around in his hands, warming it up, and carefully stretched out three strips, attaching them to each side of the metal triangle and pressing it quickly against the wall. He reached for the next one.

“Over a little more, Feli,” Ludwig said, and left the last bunch of poster tacky within easy reach and started carefully taping together the printed out sheets.

After a few more minutes, Feliciano got down off his chair and stood back to examine his work. He nodded once to himself, approving of the aesthetic.

“Where did you put the banner?”

“On the refreshments table.”

He went and got the large roll of paper and applied most of the rest of the tacky to the corners, and stuck it up directly opposite from the door.

“Ludwig, Ludwig, did I do good?”

“Yes, you did very well. Take the other side of this.”

Together, they hung up the improvised poster, then took the chairs they’d used to the other side of the room, sat down, and opened the bottle of wine Feliciano had brought. Sipping at the alcohol, they admired the far wall.

The left and right thirds of it were covered in triangular ‘Beware of Moose’ road signs, staggered to make it look like the moose were frolicking. Centered in the middle third, a blown-up portrait of Sweden with a Photoshopped crown and set of moose antlers had, through technological finagling, been printed on a jigsaw of paper sheets. Above it hung a banner, painted by Feliciano in a flawless, practiced imitation of Denmark’s handwriting that read: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOOSE KING!”

Feliciano turned to Ludwig.

“No one is _ever_ going to suspect us.”

 


	7. Lady Knights

It wasn’t like lady knights were unknown- uncommon, yes, but not unknown. There was Dame Erzsébet the Magyar, who’d made an entire career out of rescuing her hapless prince; and Dame Letje of Bruxelles, Royal Champion of _two_ courts; and the Sisters Braginskaya, Dame Kateryna Sun-Bright and Dame Natalya Frost-Biter. Even the Margravine of Brandenburg, the most powerful woman in all the known world, had been Dame Luitgard the Perilous before she’d found herself her mercenary to take for a lord and his little sister to raise and train.

No one _ever_ called Sir Monika the Thunderer, of Brandenburg, _Dame._ It just didn’t _fit_ the mountain of a woman who stood to the height of her brother, the Margrave, and breadth to match the adventuring Prince of Sweden, her long-time traveling companion and co-commander of the Knights Errant.

For all the songs and stories of Berwald Bearhearted and Monika the Thunderer, singularly and together, there was no consensus as to the formation of the Knights Errant. One popular theory involved Sir Feliks of Kraków (unkindly called the Flamboyant), his hussar wings, too much alcohol, and an inadvisable honor duel with a badly geographically-displaced Turkish akıncı, Sadık of Ankara; which had to be sorted out by Sir Feliks’s war-brother Sir Toris the Ambusher. Another story held that Sir Feliks, Sir Toris, and Sadık of Ankara were already traveling together when circumstance threw them into Berwald Bearhearted and Monika the Thunderer, already hot in pursuit of treacherous noblemen who had kidnapped Berwald’s squire Timo and Sir Matthieu the Humble. Somehow, no one ever accounted for Dame Ffion the Dragon.

-

Regardless of origin, the Knights Errant was the best fighting force you could get for your money. They worked perfectly as a unit and in pairs or triads, and supplied a range of skills. Even the ‘squire’ served as a fighter, with a fleet-footed mare and frightening skill with the bow. There were horror stories of the man when he ran out of arrows and waded into battle with nothing but the arming sword King Augustus had seen strapped to his side as they’d rode into camp an hour or so before.

King Augustus greatly appreciated the berserker rage that these northern types seemed prone to.

 _It must be something in the blood,_ he thought, an eye to his grandson and heir. He was hot-headed enough, and skilled, but far too moody and risk-prone for his tastes. Hopefully age would mellow him, or at least provide more self-control.

“Crown Prince Berwald of Sweden and Lady Monika von Brandenburg, Margravine Apparent,” his aide-de-camp announced, and held the tent flap open.

King Augustus felt his eyebrows disappear into this hair. There was Berwald Bearhearted and Monika the Thunderer, all right, but the _young maiden_ they had with them looked like one of _his_ people.

“And you are?” he asked, looking her over. She was wearing a riding skirt in dull red-brown with a matching short cape, and otherwise kitted out in good-quality linen and leather. A brass horn hung at her hip, over a fighting knife.

“Alice Vargas, Your Majesty,” she said; and yes, with that name and that accent on her voice, she was one of his northern seaside subjects. “Knights Errant Bugler and Crier!”

“Why-” the King began to ask, but then Berwald Bearhearted said _something._ At least, Augustus _assumed_ he’d been trying to speak- it sounded like he’d tried to growl through a mouthful of gravel, and he could only barely pick up the word or two that managed to come through because he was familiar with German.

 _His own_ people _couldn’t possibly understand that!_

The Thunderer leaned down to speak in Alice’s ear, and the woman had to meet her halfway, standing precariously on tip-toe to hear.

So it was true, then, what the stories said. Bearhearted really could do no better than a semblance of speech; and The Thunderer was silent as lightning, the hooves of her horse the only warcry she could muster. He hadn’t believed it, until now.

“They’re pleased to meet you, and are sorry if this presents an inconvenience,” Alice relayed for the both of them.

This would be- _interesting._

* * *

“So how did it go?” Timo inquired when Alice returned to the tent the commanders shared.

“The King wasn’t sure what to do with me,” Alice said, picking up Monika’s sword and inspecting it, much as Timo had Berwald’s balanced across his legs, in the middle of a cleaning. “But they’re planning a battle tomorrow, so we’d best be ready. Who’s cooking tonight?”

“Sir Toris. He should be almost done.”

Dinner with the Knights Errant could be a rowdy affair, but knowledge of the upcoming battle kept things focused and calm. The food disappeared quickly, and everyone went off to their tents. Timo and Alice accompanied their commanders back to the large one they all shared, and helped stow belongings.

The lanterns were blown out, and Alice snuggled up against Monika.

“Stay safe tomorrow,” she whispered, and gave her a goodnight kiss.


End file.
